by Carola Dunn
“I see.” Alec knew perfectly well that Ernie’s paternal grandfather had been a born and bred Cockney, a rag and bone man who prospered at his trade and rose to be a costermonger. “How nice to find a longlost relative.”
“Isn’t it?” Ernie said straight-faced. “It helped that the lieutenant isn’t too popular with the ranks. Apt to go off half-cocked, Cousin Bert says. I don’t know what we’re going to do with him. Proper sozzled, he is, according to Cousin Bert.”
“In vino veritas, let’s hope. I wonder if he’s trying to drown a guilty conscience or merely his sorrows? As long as he’s not under the table, we’ll manage, but we’ll have to get him out of there. One doesn’t lightly walk into an officers’ mess without an invitation.”
“Not to worry, Chief. Cousin Bert’s arranged it all. I’ll just give him the nod, and we’ll go into the orderly room, and a couple of the lieutenant’s pals will bring him to us.”
“Great Scott, Ernie, how . . . No, I’d rather not know.”
“Least said, soonest mended,” said DC Piper smugly, and went to give Private Piper the nod.
A couple of white-jacketed orderlies, forewarned by Cousin Bert, cleared out of their room. It resembled a butler’s pantry, with a deal table at which they had been polishing silver and glassware.
Alec had no sooner seated himself than three young Hotspurs entered the room, two hauling between them a drunkenly protesting third. Piper had a chair ready. He pushed it in behind Jardyne’s knees so that he involuntarily sat down.
“I say, fellows . . .” he mumbled.
The others guffawed. Alec had met both but couldn’t bring to mind their names, one Guards lieutenant being very like another.
The shorter of the two patted Jardyne on the shoulder. “You should be glad she’s not here,” he said severely. “You wouldn’t really want her to see you in this state. All present and correct, Chief Inspector.”
The pair saluted and departed.
“Coffee,” Alec said to Piper. “Black.”
On the sideboard was a coffeepot keeping warm over a spirit lamp. While Piper found a cup and poured, Alec regarded Jardyne in silence.
The lieutenant shifted uneasily, then said in a belligerent voice, “You’re the ’tective. Talked t’you yes’day. Where’s Fay? Fellows said Fay’s here.”
“I’m afraid the fellows misunderstood. I want to talk to you about Miss Fay.”
Jardyne shook his head, and once started, he seemed unable to stop shaking it. “Mustn’t bandy ’bout lady’s name in mess. Damn bad form. She doesn’ love me.”
Piper set the cup of coffee in front of him. His head stopped moving as he reached for it hungrily and took a gulp. He almost spat it out.
“Coffee! Ordered brandy!”
“You’ve had enough,” Alec said briskly. “More than enough. Drink the coffee and let’s see if we can get some sense out of you.”
Sullen but obedient, Jardyne drank. Piper refilled the cup, then sat down with his notebook at the ready.
“Tell me again about the night you and Captain Devereux escorted Miss Carradine and Miss Fay home to the King’s House from here.”
“Foggy.”
“That’s right.” Alec switched to an encouraging tone.
“Colonel didn’ want the girls t’walk alone, ’cause of fog. Brenda took Dev’s arm, but Fay wou’n’t take mine. Girls!”
Alec was amazed that Fay had had so much sense. “You left them at their front door. What next?”
“Went for a walk. A’ready told you.” He sipped the fresh coffee. “Dunno what Dev did.”
“Where did you walk, Lieutenant?”
“Ri’ round the bloody walls. Some of it you can walk on top of the walls.”
“Starting from the King’s House, which direction did you take?”
Jardyne blinked as if he couldn’t work out the answer. He took a deep swig of coffee. “Round . . . round the Green? Opp’site way from Captain Dev’reux. Past the scaffold site. Behin’ the chapel. Behin’—”
“All right. So you went all the way round and back to the King’s House.”
The head shaking started again, but this time he managed to stop it. “No. No use. What’s the good of throwing gravel at a girl’s window if she won’t talk to you when she looks out?”
“Where did you end your walk, then?”
“Mess. Here. Officers’ Quarters. Went to bed.”
Alec glanced at Piper, who nodded. It was the same story Jardyne had told yesterday.
“What time did you get in?”
“No idea. Didn’t look.” A moment’s hard thought produced “After ten. Must’ve been ’cause the girls watched that Keys business.”
“While you were out, did you see anyone?”
“No. Dark. Foggy.”
“Miss Fay—”
“Damn it, don’t want to talk about her!”
“Miss Fay,” Alec persisted, “told you about some dealings she had with the Yeoman Gaoler, Rumford.”
Jardyne scowled. “Told her I’d take care of the sod. She wouldn’t let me. Said Rumford’d go straight to the general, and if she wanted him to know, she’d tell him herself.”
“But with Rumford dead, he couldn’t tell tales. White knight slays dragon. Maiden is duly grateful.”
“No! Over a few cigarettes? You must be out of your mind!”
“After a few drinks—”
“I’d been drinking cocoa, devil take it! Oooh,” Jardyne groaned, turning greenish, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Piper was very prompt with a nice silver soup tureen emblazoned with the emblem of the Hotspur Guards.
Once the worst was over, Alec let the lieutenant go.
“Cigarettes and cocoa,” said Piper, “the very thought of ’em was too much for him. I don’t think he did it, do you?”
“No, I’m inclined to think not. I don’t believe the young idiot would attack without warning, and he’d only to say a word or two to Crabtree to know he’d got the wrong man. Where’s Devereux?”
“Supposed to be over at the barracks, doing something military. D’you want to go over there, Chief, or send for him to come here?”
“We’d better not keep your ‘cousin Bert’ from his silver polishing any longer. I leave you to apologize for the tureen.”
“Chief!”
“I dare say anyone working in a mess bar has similar messes to deal with not infrequently. Come after me when the family reunion is over. You’ll find me if you don’t catch up before I get to the barracks.”
20
Alec went out. The morning’s breeze had cleared the sky of clouds and then dropped, leaving a beautiful afternoon, more like June than April. On the Parade Ground, a squad of scarlet-coated Guardsmen were performing intricate manoeuvres to the rat-a-tat of a drum and occasional shouts from a sergeant. An officer, also in dress uniform, was looking on, tapping with his swagger stick on his shining kneeboot to the rhythm of the drum.
Recognizing Captain Devereux, Alec walked slowly towards him, wondering if accosting him at such a time would be an irreparable breach of military etiquette. Too bad—he was a policeman, not a soldier. If he worried about the professional sensibilities of his suspects, he’d never be able to do his job.
Devereux turned towards him and raised a hand in greeting. “Good afternoon, Chief Inspector. Come to grill me, or merely to admire my company?”
“A bit of each, Captain.”
“We’re practising for Trooping the Colour. These old ceremonies have a life of their own. You’d think the late ‘Great’ War would have put paid to anything but the most practical training for the troops, wouldn’t you? But spectacle and patriotic fervour go hand in hand, so we put on our red coats and shakos and march about in fancy dress like circus performers. Shall we go in? Carry on, Sergeant!”
Piper joined them as they went into the barracks. Devereux stuck his head into the staff office and informed the adjutant that he was “assisting the poli
ce with their enquiries,” then led them to a small room with several well-worn easy chairs and a drinks cabinet.
“Officers’ withdrawing room,” he said with his usual sardonic inflection. “Have a seat. Coffee? Smoke?” He took out a slim gold cigarette case stamped with the regimental arms. Snapping it open to display a neat rank of Sobranies, he offered it to Alec.
“Thanks, but I’m a pipe man.” He made no move to take out his pipe.
The cigarettes were next offered to Piper, who refused with regret. They were several cuts above his usual Woodbines, but he dutifully followed Alec’s lead.
“Coffee would be welcome,” said Alec, relenting as Devereux lit his own cigarette and drew deeply.
A perfect smoke ring emerged from the captain’s lips as he rang a bell by the fireplace. An orderly appeared, disappeared, then reappeared with coffee. Sipping it and comparing it with Scotland Yard coffee, Alec reflected that the Hotspur officers really didn’t do themselves too badly.
He got down to business. “Tell me again about the night of the murder, that foggy night.”
“Am I correct in supposing that this second interview means I’m not merely a possible witness but a definite suspect?” Devereux showed no sign of anxiety.
“Not necessarily, sir. We find people often remember details in a second telling that were forgotten or not realized first time round.”
“Come off it, Chief Inspector. ‘Sirring’ me only makes me the more certain you believe you have reason for suspicion. The more so because, if I may be crass, your wife’s father outranked mine, a mere baron of a comparatively recent creation. There’s some sort of distant connection, though, and I knew Mrs. Fletcher’s brother.”
Alec was always amazed at how the aristocracy were interconnected. “Let’s not go into that, if you please,” he said, but he left off the sir. “You escorted the Carradine young ladies to their front door, and then . . .”
“I returned to the colonel’s quarters to finish my cocoa. I have a fondness for the colonel’s lady, which, knowing her, you will not misinterpret. Since Mrs. Duggan wishes her husband’s officers to drink cocoa at bedtime, I set a heroic example for the younger gentlemen to follow. It’s excellent cocoa, made with the best milk,” he added reflectively.
Piper frowned, apparently feeling the captain was not taking his interrogation in the proper spirit.
Remembering Mrs. Duggan’s support of Devereux, Alec summoned all his patience. “And after the cocoa?”
“I reported to the Guard House. That should have been at eleven, but you can ask Captain Burney at what time I relieved him. Not more than a minute or two after the hour, or he’d have let me know about it. I went straight to bed. The sergeant on duty deals with the changing of the guard every two hours. More often than not, the officer of the watch sleeps through the night.”
“But not you.”
With a sudden ferocity quite unlike his usual flippant manner, Devereux snapped, “Sentries need to be kept on their toes.”
Somewhere in his past, men had died because of a somnolent sentry, Alec guessed. “So?” was all he said.
“So when I’m on duty I go out twice, sometimes three times a night in between the changes of the guard. I told you, I think, that the cot is damn uncomfortable. That combined with the racket of men tramping in and out wakes me. It’s not difficult to stay awake for half an hour. Then I go out just when they’ve settled down, well before they start smartening up for the arrival of the sergeant with reliefs. I don’t take note of what time I go out, but it’s not normally as early as midnight. For one thing, the Yeomen Warders are still about and, being ex-army sergeants, would happily report any sentry drowsing at his post.”
“You don’t use the stairs where Crabtree was killed? It would seem the quickest way between the sentry at the King’s House and those at the gate beneath the Bloody Tower.”
“To tell the truth, I don’t usually go to the King’s House. It’s out of the way, and it’s really more of a ceremonial post than a serious lookout. As you may have gathered, I haven’t much time for pomp and circumstance. I must have passed quite close to where Crabtree lay, but I had no reason to look in that direction. I’m sorry I didn’t, or I might have spared Mrs. Fletcher the unpleasant discovery.”
“How many times did you pass the arch to the steps without glancing in that direction?” Alec asked.
“Only once, as a matter of fact. It was such a foul night, I went out only once. I gather the fog cleared later, but I didn’t go and look. I leave the Guard House by a back door, go up between it and the White Tower to the barracks, then round by the mess, the Armoury, out into Water Street, back under the Bloody Tower to the Inner Ward, and in through the front entrance. So as I came up the slope, my attention would have been directed at the sentries in front of the Guard House, the opposite direction from those steps.”
Alec didn’t have to check his plan of the Tower to realize the truth of this assertion. Devereux’s story was reasonable, which didn’t prove it was true.
“Tell me about Rumford.”
“Rumford! The Yeoman Gaoler? What’s he got to do with it?”
“Come now, Captain, you’re not a beef-witted Hyde Park soldier, and I’m not a beef-witted village bobby.”
“Sorry.” His wry grin was disarming. “I take it you’re working on the theory that Crabtree was killed mistakenly, in lieu of Rumford.”
“In the light of what we have learnt, it seems probable.”
“And since you’re asking me about him, I take it you’re aware that I have had dealings with the fellow.”
“ ‘Dealings’ is one way to describe it, certainly.”
Devereux sighed. “All right, he was blackmailing me. I was not alone, I believe. A thoroughly nasty piece of work is our Yeoman Gaoler. But, even as you and I, Chief Inspector, not beef-witted. I’d be the last to say there are no stupid officers in the Guards, but I doubt there are many—if any—stupid sergeant majors in the whole British Army.”
“In what way did this particular sergeant major demonstrate his cleverness?”
“By never demanding more than I can easily afford.”
“He didn’t suddenly, recently, ask for a large sum?”
“No. Not from me. What is more, he has never attempted to touch me when the battalion is not on garrison duty here at the Tower. I receive a more than adequate allowance from my father, and the War cured me of any interest in the accumulation of things.”
Alec thought of the expensive cigarette case, and the expensive cigarettes inside it. He made no comment, leaving an expectant silence waiting to be filled.
After a few moments, Devereux duly filled it. “I should make it plain that the peccadillo Rumford found out about was not a criminal offence, nor anything that would get me cashiered. I did something stupid—beef-witted, if you like—in France, immediately after the Armistice. It would be of interest only to my family. I rather think my father would take it in his stride, but it would severely distress my mother, and to me, her peace of mind is worth paying for.”
“I would appreciate more information, Captain.” Alec put on his best stolid, impassive policeman show. “At the very least, it could help us round out the picture of Rumford’s modus operandi. Anything you choose to tell us will remain confidential unless it’s needed in a court case, in which case Rumford is liable to make it public anyway.”
“Who are you trying to nail, Rumford or the murderer?”
“My job is to nail the murderer, the person who thought he was killing Rumford. I rather doubt Rumford will hang about to see if he has another shot at it. Since his leaving the Tower will put paid to his activities here, and, I trust, the fear of retaliation will prevent his taking them up again elsewhere, I’d say it’s unlikely he’ll be prosecuted. The police try to deal sensitively with cases of blackmail.”
“Right-oh, then. I can’t see how it’ll help you, but you know your own business best, and Crabtree’s killer shouldn’t g
o free. Who knows whom he might go for next? So here’s the sorry tale, for what it’s worth.” Devereux studied his fingernails.
To cover embarrassment—or lies? Alec wondered.
“Towards the end of the War,” the captain continued, “I was billeted in the half-ruined château of a charming Frenchwoman. Having had no word of or from her husband since the first German assault on the Marne, she considered herself a widow. She was by no means the only one in what little was left of the village. We became . . . fond of each other. And in that momentary euphoria when the Armistice was declared, we were married. A civil ceremony such as they have in France.” He cleared his throat, stubbed out his cigarette, and lit another.
“The husband came back?” Alec prompted.
“Her husband came back. The mayor who had ‘married’ us was very helpful, swore all records would be expunged. Of course, it was an embarrassment for him, too. . . . What I absolutely cannot fathom is how Rumford found out. I didn’t tell anyone in the regiment. Our only witnesses were two friends of hers, local Frenchwomen. But there were troops marching in all directions all over the place, and I suppose the Service Corps was about, busy doing its level best to keep everyone supplied with left boots when what they needed were puttees.”
“The Service Corps doubtless had dealings with local people. I imagine French villages are as much hotbeds of gossip as are English villages.”
“In other words,” Devereux said harshly, “I’m fooling myself believing Rumford’s the only one who knows.”
“Possibly. Probably. It’s been my experience that once two people know a secret, it’s no longer a secret.”
“No one’s said anything.”
“So many soldiers coming home from the War with stories to tell. Names get forgotten, or garbled. If any of your acquaintances happen to have heard and remembered, they wouldn’t dream of mentioning your . . . misfortune to you. And, fortunately, blackmailers are few and far between. If you hadn’t happened to come into contact with Rumford, I doubt he’d have sought you out. He doesn’t go in for putting pen to paper.”
